


Pep(per) Up, Peppermint

by snapslikethis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M, sixth year, ust jily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8988361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapslikethis/pseuds/snapslikethis
Summary: Sixth year Lily is home, sick, on Christmas. Can a visit from her friends cheer her up?





	1. Chapter 1

**Pepper Up, Peppermint**

The jolly chime of the doorbell cut through Lily’s medicine-induced fog, rousing her. Even after the last echoes died away, she made no move from her nest on the sofa. She was closest to the door, sure, but she was also closest to death.

Exempt by default—let the healthy people handle it.

Except no one came, and the doorbell rang again. Lily winced. She’d never before fully appreciated the horror that was her parents’ novelty chime.

“Lily,” another horror—her sister—called from the back of the house, “get off your arse and answer that!”

“I’m _sick,_ ” Lily croaked. Or tried to, instead breaking off into a violent cough.

When the door rang again, Lily wished death upon her tormenter.

“I’m baking!”

(More like barking.)

The doorbell rang _again_ —what kind of savage?

“Lily, bloody get that!”

“I’m ill!”

“If you were that ill, you’d be in bed rather than infecting us all.”

Lily propped up on her elbows, the better to yell. “I’m sick on Christmas, and you’re worried about germs?”

Christmas Eve, technically speaking, but wasn’t it close enough?

“Girls, that’s enough.” Lily’s mum, having just emerged from the washroom, silenced their fight. “Petunia, mind the biscuits. Lily, stop harassing your throat. _I’ll_ get the door—likely it’s only Mrs. Baker wanting help with her dustbins again.”

After her mum patted Lily’s head, she stepped to the front door. And when she opened the door, both a blast of cold air and a deafening roar assaulted the sitting room.

It wasn’t Mrs. Baker at all, but a group of Christmas singers.

Lily threw her blanket over her head, cursing the damned do-gooders. But that wasn’t fair, was it? They were only the old lot from St. Agnes’s. (More loud than usual, but maybe they’d had too much spiked cocoa to keep warm.) She would’ve joined them, had she been feeling better. It’s just, Christmas was her favorite holiday, and—

Wait. Did someone just sing _Hippogriffs?_

Lily reluctantly uncovered her head to listen. Sure enough, she distinguished Sirius Black’s booming voice over all the rest, then Mary’s cheerful one. She even heard James Potter’s—loud and commanding and hopelessly off-key.

Well, then, that explained the savagery.

Was this a mad delusion? One too many decongestants?

She exerted her last bit of energy to peek over the back of the sofa. From this angle, she could just see the front door, and though her mother’s silhouette blocked most of it, she saw Peter and Mary singing cheerfully.

Not a delusion, then. Just the whole crew come to wish her a Merry bloody Christmas.  

With a smile (even though her cheeks hurt from puffiness), she collapsed again and listened to the song.

The lyrics, bastardized things Remus and Sirius had invented second year, were catchy, and Lily knew them by heart. She would’ve hummed along, but her throat still burned from yelling at her sister.

Her mates really were shit singers, weren’t they? Fuck all if she didn’t adore them to pieces.

“Merry Christmas,” the group chorused at the close of their song. Mary added, “Hi, Mrs. Evans.”

Lily’s mum clapped appreciatively. “Well done, all of you. Mary—good to see you again. And you too, Aggie, Teresa. And thank you to the rest of you for the song.”

Petunia—from her perch in the doorway, where she’d come to watch—clucked her tongue. Mrs. Evans ignored her.

“I take it you’re all school friends?” her mum asked.

Lily heard various answers of affirmation, then Mary asked, “Is Lily here?”

“She is, but I’m afraid she’s feeling a bit under the weather.”

“That explains why she didn’t answer my owl, then.”

Lily conscience prickled. Or was that another headache? She loved her mates, but she felt worse than under the weather, she felt bloody awful. Instead of wishing them a wonderful evening, however, her mother bid her mates inside for a nip of hot cocoa.

Lily and Petunia’s whispered protests went unheeded—maybe as punishment for their bickering?

“I insist,” she said, opening the door wide. “You’re all frozen solid. We have fresh-baked biscuits, too.”

Fresh-baked biscuits proved too enticing to pass up; with a great tramping of snow off boots, Lily’s mates filed around the couch and into the small sitting room, hanging their coats on the coat stand, which threatened to topple with the weight, and then taking whatever seat—or spot on the floor—was available.  Mary, Lily’s best friend, moved Lily’s legs to take a seat on the sofa.

After brief introductions to the boys, her mother bustled into the kitchen to start preparing cocoa.

As they all stared expectantly at Lily, it occurred to her that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Hell, she wasn’t wearing proper _trousers._ And her legs hadn’t been shaved since she'd left school, and her hair hadn’t seen the clean side of a shower in nearly that long. Her blanket wasn’t big enough to properly cover both, so she curled into a ball and covered herself.

Mary poked her. “We know that’s you, Lil.”

Lily grunted.

Petunia stepped forward and plucked the blanket clean off the couch. “Don’t be rude, Lily. Your friends are here to see you.”

Lily glared at her. Yes, Petunia had been forced to wait on Lily hand and foot for days, and yes, Lily had completely abused it, but this was a low blow. Mary, who despised Petunia, lunched over the back of the couch for it; Petunia stepped out of reach.

“Petunia, dear,” Mrs. Evans beckoned, “stop torturing your sister and help me, or go to your room.”

Petunia tossed the blanket into the dirty laundry before heading to her room.

“So that’s your sister?” Peter asked as the bedroom door slammed shut.

Lily nodded.

“She’s a peach, Evans,” Sirius said, giving her a wink. “A real star.”

Lily returned Sirius’s grin—he understood what it was like to have a shit sibling.

Aggie, bless her, grabbed a coat from the tree and lay it over Lily. Although she was grateful, she lay there, miserable, facing her friends, who watched her with various expressions of sympathy. Bloody hell.

“Someone’s got to say it, Evans,” Sirius said, “and I’ll volunteer. You look like shit.”

“What he means, Lily, darling,” Aggie said, giving a sympathetic smile, “is that you look unwell.”

“Mhm,” Lily said. Unwell was an understatement, wasn’t it?

“Only a bit,” Mary said.

“How bad?” Lily asked.

“Eight out of ten.”

“Ten being okay?”

Mary patted her foot. “Ten being _shit_ , love.”

“I feel ten out of ten like shit, Mare.”

Her voice was embarrassingly groggy—she hadn’t properly used it in days, except to boss Petunia around.  But she was too tired even to care that she looked like shit.

“I’d give you a hug, darling,” Teresa said, “but I don’t want to catch whatever it is you have.”

“Rudolph disease,” Sirius said, “that’s what she’s got.”

When everyone looked at him, confused and expectant, and a tiny bit apprehensive to hear whatever it was that meant, he explained, “the blotchy nose. Get it?”

James took a swipe at Sirius. Sirius, of course, reciprocated, throwing in a kick for good measure. The boys tumbled into the already cramped center of the room, wrestling. Because what could possibly go wrong with _that_?

“Boys, be civilized!” Mary ordered, bringing them to heel.

The boys straightened up. James, with his ridiculous, lopsided antlers headband, and equally crooked glasses, looked at Lily. He had the good sense to appear sheepish, even if he didn’t mean it.

Lily returned his grin.

“Sirius has something to say to you, Evans.”

When Sirius didn’t speak, James punched him lightly in the arm, and they engaged in some sort of nonverbal argument. Sirius lost. With a tortured sigh, he said, “Evans, darling, you look lovely tonight. Positively radiant.”

Lily grinned again. “That hurt?”

“Very much.”

“It’s okay.”

This satisfied James, and the boys returned to their places on the floor. Peter became the victim of his own curiosity then, opening one of the many medicine bottles that littered the side table and giving it a little taste.

“Merlin, what _is_ that rubbish?”

Mary eyed the label. “That’s cough medicine, Peter.”

“And this?” he asked, lifting another.

Mary nodded again. “Also cough medicine.”

“And this one?”

“A decongestant," Lily said. "And my mum makes me take that, too—it’s just as awful.”

He rattled a little bottle of pills. “And _this_ one?”

“Looks like an antibiotic of some sort.” Aggie—who wanted to be a healer, and whose parents were Muggle doctors, motioned for the half-filled bottle of pills. Peter tossed it over. She read the label and frowned. “Lily Evans, these are for your _father.”_

“Yeah?”

“They expired two years ago!”

Lily shrugged.

Aggie gaped at Lily. “Christ, Lil, are you taking all of these medicines at once?”

“Mhm.”

They didn’t help at all, but she kept trying different combinations to see if she could get more than three hours of sleep. Hadn’t happened yet.

“You shouldn't take antibiotics for a cold, Lily!" Aggie said. "I’m keeping these and I'll dispose of them properly." She shoved the bottle into her jeans pocket.

Teresa, sensing a fight brewing, redirected the conversation: “Lil, what’s wrong with you, exactly?”

Lily lay back on her pillow. “Death.”

“Strep throat?” Peter asked.

“ _Death_.”

“Sinus infection?” Teresa guessed.

“Death.”

“Bronchitis?” Aggie asked.

“DEATH.”

“Oh,” Mary said, “I remember this one. You have a cold. A cold, right?”

Lily nodded.

“Just a cold?” James asked. “Why don’t you take Pepper Up then?”

She angled her head to make proper eye contact.

He’d been watching her since his arrival, something she’d pretended not to notice, but he hadn’t yet spoken to her directly. Brewing a Pepper Up had occurred to _her_ more than once. And it’d be nice, but she didn’t turn seventeen until January. Once upon a time, she would’ve thought he meant it rudely, but here, he didn’t _mean_ to be insensitive, did he?

It probably never even occurred to him that she wouldn’t have proper access to magic outside school.

She shook her head. “No magic.”

James ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Shit, sorry, Evans. Forgot.”

“S’okay.” And then something occurred to her. “How did you lot even get here?” Surely they weren’t reckless enough to side-along with Sirius, the only one without a trace.

“Knight Bus,” Peter said. “Remus threw up twice.”

Which explained both his putrid shade of green, and his silence. He and Lily exchanged weak, sympathetic smiles—good to know she wasn’t the _only_ one feeling like shit.

“And why are you all _here_ , in Cokeworth?”

James piped up. “To serenade you, of course. And to wish you a happy Christmas.”

“Happy bloody Christmas, mate,” she said with a laugh. Her laugh turned into another coughing fit.

When she recovered, Mary said, “Why don’t you stop trying to talk, Lil. Or laugh. Or move. Or do anything but lie there pathetically, and we’ll regale you with our harrowing adventure so far tonight, yeah? The boys can tell it properly.”

The boys obliged, launching into a thrilling tale that was hilarious, and complete bullshit, but entertaining nevertheless.

Lily sank back into the couch, trying and failing to ignore the way James Potter kept flickering to her.

James Potter, here in her living room. She wouldn’t have believed it four months ago, and now it seemed—not natural, exactly, but not unnatural, either. She didn’t _fancy_ him, but they’d become something like mates over the last term.

(Mates who had almost snogged at the last victory party, but you know, whatever. She’d almost snogged lots of her friends.)

That he was here, watching her look like death, and not _minding_ that she looked like death…that shouldn’t unsettle her at all.

Perhaps Aggie was right about the meds.

“Mary, dear,” her mum called, “could you come help me with the cocoa?”

Mary left, and James took her place on the sofa. Lily tucked her hairy legs under the coat.

“Don’t shy away from _me_ Evans, you’re the infectious one.”

With that, he pulled her sock-covered foot from under the blanket and began to massage it. Tickle it, actually, under the guise of massaging it. She wriggled away from him, but the couch was too small and his grip was too firm.

(This, touching, this was a new thing for them too. A new and not wholly unwanted thing, but not with everyone watching them.)

She kicked him and tucked her feet under his thigh. He let go and slung his arm over the back of the sofa, making himself perfectly at ease.

An awkward silence remained, and Lily supposed it fell on her to host—they were at _her_ house, after all. And she was happy to see all of them, but she could barely speak.

She looked to James for help. He took up the mantle of reigniting the conversation.

Sure, he did it by provoking Remus into a good-natured argument by insulting his hideous Christmas sweater, but Lily had no complaints. She smiled as Remus said he wouldn’t be taking fashion critiques from someone wearing blinking antlers, fuck you very much.

Off they went.

Lily snuggled under the coat as they bantered banter back and forth, carrying on until her mum came in to announce cocoa was ready.

“It might actually be better if you lot come in here,” she explained apologetically. “There’s more room in the kitchen.”

Her mates went into the kitchen, keen on their biscuits and hot chocolate, but her mother lingered behind.

“Do you mind that I invited them in?” She sat on the edge of the sofa and tucked a bit of Lily’s stray hair behind her ear. “I know you’re unwell, but I thought it might do you some good to see them.”

“It’s okay,” Lily replied. She eyed the mug her mum set down on the coffee table. “Cocoa?”

“No, you tea.”

“ _Muum_.”

“ _Yes_ , Lily. You’ve got to take it. It helps your throat.”

Her mum might call it tea, but Lily called it what it was—medicinal garbage. Potions didn’t taste as foul, and Lily had tasted enough failed experiments to know. A bloody torture device, is what it was, all dressed up in Lily’s favorite Dr. Who mug.

“I’ll make sure she drinks it, Mrs. Evans. You can go and relax.”

Both Lily and her mum turned their attention to James, who stood in the doorway, his own mug of cocoa in hand.

Her mother asked, “Refresh my memory, dear, what’s your name again?”

“James Potter.”

“And you promise you’ll make her drink it?”

“Yep,” James said, then corrected himself. “I mean yes. Ma’am. Yes ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t call me ma’am,” her mum said, “But you make sure she drinks that, James Potter.”

“Okay.”

“She likes to toss it in the flowerpot when she thinks I’m not looking.”

“ _Mum_.”

“Going, going.”

“And thank you for the provisions,” he said, lifting his hand to indicate his cocoa and biscuits.

Lily's mum smiled warmly. “Of course, dear. I’ll be in there if you need me.”

Lily frowned at James.

“Hush, Evans," he said, James sat on the couch. “Drink, then I can give you contraband.”

"Cocoa?” She reached for his mug, but James made a face and shook his head.

"You need to drink that.”

She grimaced, and he held up his biscuit as a peace offering. Lily made a face and shook _her_ head.

“You really _are_ sick…which is why you really need to drink that, Evans."

“No.”

“Oh yes, you are,” he said, pulling her into a sitting position. “I promised your mum.”

She made to stick her tongue out at him, but remembered just in time that her mouth was probably breeding fungus by now. Instead, she settled for calling him a suck up.

“Drink.”

“ _Traitor_.”

“Drink.”

Lily rolled her eyes. " _Fine_.”

But instead of drinking, she tried to lay back down again. He grabbed her elbow and tucked her into his side, so that her head was resting on his shoulder. And that was playing foul, wasn’t it? Of course she wouldn’t want to move _now_.

He picked the mug up from the coffee table, then placed it in her hand.

“Drink, Evans.”

“You shouldn’t be touching me, Potter. I’m really gross.”

“Nah.” His shoulder shrugged, even though her head rested on it. “You’re, like, five out of ten. Not eight.”

Lily smiled, despite the fact that the putrid tea wafted under her nose. “ _Liar_.”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind.”

“Well, thank-you.”

“Drink.”

She did as he asked, if only to shut him up about it. Shuddered, because it tasted like rancid jelly slugs, didn’t it? He had the bullocks to laugh at her. She pinched his side.

“Ow! Is it really that bad?”

When she held the mug under his nose, he cringed.

“ _Fuck_. Give it.” He took the mug out of her hand and drained it into the houseplant. “That’s foul, Evans, but it’s nothing to the, er, perfume you’re wearing.”

“Ew. Stop smelling me.”

“Can’t help it—it’s, er, very pungent.”

She snorted. “The rank scent of unwashed sickness?”

“No. I mean yes, but there’s also something”—he sniffed—“minty? Peppermint?”

Lily blushed. “Oh, that’s the vapor rub.”

“Hm?”

“A salve, for the coughing.”

On cue, she started coughing again. That’s what she got for talking so much, wasn’t it? Her reward was James Potter rubbing her back. Completely unhelpful, but she wasn't about to complain.

After she recovered from her coughing fit, and after he admired his Dalek mug, they sipped his cocoa in a mostly comfortable silence.

He'd assured her he could get a Pepper Up if he got sick, so what did it matter? And she was wrong—this, her and James, this _was_ comfortable, wasn’t it? Far more than she’d ever thought possible. He had a very cozy shoulder, after all, and his coat smelt rather better than unwashed rank, with a flavor of mint.

Not unlike her Amortentia, though she’d never mention that to _him_. And though she'd tried, she'd never been able to tease out any specific scent—just Potter. Or, as they'd been testing out recently, James. couldn't pull out any specific smell. 

Too soon for her liking, their friends filed back in, along with their mother. It was a flurry of activity, locating boots and mittens, and Lily was shivering from the opened front door. Eventually, though, they’d all filed past the couch with well wishes for a Merry Christmas.

Mary promised to come visit for the New Year.

Everyone except James. She was afraid he’d slipped out first, that she’d missed him, when he emerged from the hall with a blanket.

“I couldn’t deprive you of my coat, could I, without giving you something in return?”

He traded his coat for the blanket—not that shitty thing she’d been using, but a big, cozy one from the linen closet.

“My _hero_.”

“’Course I am.”

Reckless, flirting in front of her mother, but she couldn’t _bloody_ help it, could she?

“Sorry ‘bout the germs.”

“No worries. Take care, yeah? And drink your tea.”

He bent over the back of the sofa to ruff her hair. Her greasy, unkempt hair, but he didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t mind it, either. She did mind her mother’s knowing look, though, so she brushed his hand away.

Her mother bid him goodbye, then closed the door after him after he left.

“Well, that was an adventure,” her mum said. “I’m sure you’re worn out.”

Lily nodded and—hopefully for the last time—collapsed on the sofa again, burrowing into her blanket. “It did…but it was nice.”

“You have good friends, love.”

“Yeah, I do.” Lily rolled over on her side, burying her face into the couch cushion.

“Don’t think that falling back to sleep is going to prevent you from answering all sorts of questions about that boy in the morning.”

“Mhm, 'night, mum. Merry Christmas.”

She’d answer her mum’s questions about James Potter in the morning, or as soon as she had some. For now, she was knackered, and warm and cozy for reasons that had nothing to do with her mum’s tea, and she wanted nothing more than to sleep through until Christmas morning.

Long before Christmas morning dawned, however, the wretched doorbell rang again, waking her up.

No, that was the cuckoo clock from her father’s den.

No, the cuckoo clock didn’t _hoot_. Nor did it rap at the window.

She opened her eyes, disoriented for a moment until she realized she’d been moved to her bedroom. Her dad must have done when he got home from work.

She was in her bedroom, and a little tawny owl sat outside her window sill. It hooted again.

Lily heaved herself off the bed and dragged herself to the window. After letting the owl in and relieving it of its burdens, she was amused, and grateful, but not entirely surprised to read:

“Miss Peppermint,

Bribed dad into brewing this, since he’s the Potioneer. It’s fresh, so it should work like a brick. Mind the steaming ears, and chuck that vapor rub when your Mum’s not looking.

Happy bloody Christmas,

Your Hero”


	2. caput León

 

 

“Evans, what in the bloody hell are you doing here?” James asked, surveying the entirely-too-chipper-for-this-unholy-hour redhead at his front door.

“Hullo, Head Boy Potter,” she said cheerily, giving him a snappy salute.

James grimaced. “You really don’t have to greet me like that.”

“I _really_ do though.”

“You really, really don’t.”

“Disagree.”

“Alright, fine.”

But between his mum and dad’s respective tears, his mates’ merciless teasing, and now this—

But between Lily Evans’s shorts, and that vest that barely passed for a shirt—not that he was complaining—he was hard pressed to think of much else. And her chewing gum even smacked cheerfully against her lips, and her hair, done up in that braid he liked so much… She shifted to adjust the rucksack slung over her shoulder, and he realized her shoes had wheels attached to them.

James tried to gather his wits.

“I preferred when you called me heroes, Evans.”

And he had—she’d spent most of the spring term calling him heroes from Muggle literature—Hercules, Jim Thornton, someone named Mr. Darcy. He didn’t understand half of them, but she’d been calling him anything but Potter, and—

Somewhere from the kitchen, James’s mum cleared her throat, and he remembered his manners.

“I mean, hullo, it’s nice to see you, not _just_ ‘what are you doing here’.”

“Assumed.”

 “But also,” he said, stepping through the threshold and shutting the door behind him, “what _are_ you doing here, at”—he looked at the watch he’d received a few months before—“six forty-five in the damn morning?”

“You said, ‘This was loads of fun, Evans, thanks for the invite. Here’s my address. Come over _any_ time.’ And then you scrawled your address on the corner of my Potions essay. And six forty-five in the bloody morning counts as ‘any’ time.”

James grinned, despite his best effort not to.

She’d lowered her voice in a startlingly accurate imitation of his.

Sure, she needn’t have smirked, run a hand through her hair, adjusted her imaginary glasses, or winked so hard that the entire left side of her face had squinted. But aside from all of that, the impression had been dead on. Mostly, it was that she’d been paying that much attention to him to know his fidgets that chuffed him.

“Memorizing my quotes, are you, Evans? Going to get that tattooed on your forehead?”

“When I get the line of yours that finally works on my tattooed on my body, Head Boy Potter, I’ll let you choose the place.”

She smiled, blindingly, and he couldn’t help that his grew wider. This _girl_.

“ _Please_ stop calling me Head Boy Potter,” he whined.

“Just trying to get it out of my system,” she sing-songed.

“Yes, but you’ve no idea the shit—” James broke off, not wanting to discuss the tattoo _he’d_ just maybe gotten, last night with Sirius. His head felt like it’d taken a dozen bludger hits. He was 100% certain Sirius had spiked his drink. He was half sure the tattoo was a fake. Still, he hadn’t been able to remove it, and he hadn’t yet had a chance to beat the shit out of Sirius and know for sure, so—

James cleared his throat. “Anyway, Evans, what are you doing here again?”

Her smile, for the first time, faltered. “I—d’you want me to go?”

“No! And I did say any time, you’re right. Your random appearance just surprised me is all.”

“That was kind of the point, James. And it just so happens that I’m not here randomly.” Her Cheshire cat grin reminded him unpleasantly of his mum.

“That almost scares me more.”

“Scared of me still?” she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear which was one of her nervous ticks.

James raised his chin defiantly and tried to project an air of utmost confidence.

“I’m not _scared_ of you, Evans.”

But that was a lie.

He’d been scared of her since she hexed his arse in Duelling club, third year. He didn’t even register girls at all until fourth year. It was at least the first time he’d been awed by her, which felt as much of a beginning as anything.

Not that he’d thought about it all that much.

“How did you even get here, anyway?”

Her laugh gave James goosebumps.

Better than a raised prick, at least, although the morning was young.

“I Apparated, duh! You gave me your address, remember?”

“Yes, but you’ve never been here before.”

“So?”

“You’re wearing rolling skates.”

“Roller skates,” she corrected, though not unkindly. She gave a little twirl for his benefit.

“Dead impressive.”

“The skating, or the Apparition?”

“All of it. That you’d Apparated to a place you’d never been, and that you did it in _those_.”

“Well, I fell on my bum.”

“Alright?”  
“Yes, thank-you for asking.”

“Not you—your bum. It’d be a tragedy to ruin it.”

“Stop flirting! And it’s not _that_ terribly impressive. You flew to my house, yesterday! _That’s_ seriously impressive.”

“Yeah, but I’d taken the Knight Bus before, so I knew where I was going— Not as impressive as Apparating…”

“I guess…”

James raised his eyebrows, but she pretended that she didn’t see it and became ridiculously interested in his mum’s flowers. He waited her out, crossing own arms, tapping a foot impatiently, and staring at her until she stomped a foot, almost slipping and falling on her arse again.

He caught her arm and prevented her from falling entirely, though he was quick to pull it back once it was steady again. Rules, and all.

“Evans.”

“Oh, what, James? Drop it!”

“No, Lily. Stop doing that! You always do it.”

“It’s not—”

“Evans, is is seriously impressive. YOU are seriously impressive. You _know_ you are. It’s alright to just say it, yeah? Just take. The. Compliment.”

She smiled, despite her annoyance, and reached out her hand and mimed taking something before putting it in her pocket. “Taken.”

“Evans, _take_ the _compliment_. Properly.”

“You are _ridiculous_.”

James just raised his eyebrows again. “Well?”

“Fine. James, thank-you for the compliment. You’re right. I am dead bloody impressive. And cute on roller skates, though that part of the compliment was implied.”

He nodded, not bothering to address her last (very true) assertion. That’s probably why she’d worn them in the first place.

“And I am amazing at Apparition,” she said, and he realized the trap too late, “even if you’re too scared to do it yourself.”

“I’m not _scared_ to Apparate,” James yelped, his voice raising an octave.

“Yes you are, don’t deny it!”

“One tiny, insignificant incident—”

“Screamed like a bloody banshee in the Great Hall—” she cut across him, grinning.

“Perfectly reasonable response to my foot bloody disappearing!”

“It was three feet away!”

“You’d have screamed too, Evans—”

“I’ve never splinched myself though, Potter, and I doubt I ever will.”

She finished with a satisfied little nod, knowing she’d won.

“Like I sad. Impressive.”

“And _then_ you passed out.”

“And you caught me!”

They shared a proper laugh, remembering that she had indeed caught him.

Magically, but still.

And then she’d forced her way between the Heads of houses to hold his hand, even though he was unconscious.

It’d been the most glorious moment of James’s life thus far, and he’d missed it.

Lily admitted, maybe to soothe his slightly-wounded pride, “That might be the only thing I’ve ever seen you be horrible at, y’know?”

James six months ago would’ve landed on that for a long time and listed all of the things he was excellent at, but James six months ago didn’t know when to shut the fuck up. He settled for a modest thank you. Y’know, to set a good compliment-accepting-example.

“Thank you for acknowledging that I am brilliant in literally everything _but_ Apparition.”

 “If I could do with a little more hubris, James Potter, you could do with a smidge less.”

James chose to ignore this.

“If you recall, and this is important for context, I wasn’t terrible forever. I persevered despite my near-death experience and passed my test on the second try.”

Lily quirked an eyebrow—a skill he’d never quite mastered and was incredibly jealous of. “Remus told me it was the third though.”

“Damn him! Yes the third. Anyway, flying is superior. I prefer my broomstick.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“And _I’m_ the flirt?”

Lily more or less ignored this, giving a small, dignified nod before asking, “Are you really upset that I’m here? Because I can—”

“No—” James caught his hand in his hair when it was halfway through and pulled it out. Maybe her impression wasn’t so off base after all. “It’s brilliant, actually,” he assured her, “I just wish I’d—”

She looked at his shirt and smiled. “Had time to change into a shirt that didn’t have crusted drool on the collar?”

He also looked at his shirt and grimaced. “ _Fuck_.”

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve seen you nearly every morning for six years—I know you drool in your sleep.”

“Stalker,” he accused.

“You’re still eight of ten, even with drool on your shirt, if that helps any.”

“Liar.”

Except she wasn’t, and grinned noncommittally.

“Are you at any point going to stop flirting shamelessly long enough to tell me why you’re really here, Lily?”

“James. If I was flirting, you’d know it.”

He tried to raise an eyebrow and failed. She raised an eyebrow and smirked. The urge to reach out and tickle her was overwhelming, but he remembered just in time that they weren’t touching.

Christmas break had proven to be something of a turning point in their relationship. It still felt like jinxing things to call it a relationship, but it seemed inadequate to call it a friendship.

Whatever it was, he hadn’t realized the shift at the time. He’d gone, along with their friends, to Lily’s house to sing Christmas carols, only to realize she’d been sick. In a masterstroke, he’d mailed a cure he’d convinced his dad to brew, and they’d kept up the correspondence through Christmas break.

They’d returned to Hogwarts as something…more....than what they’d left.

And the nicknames, the increased flirting on both of their parts, the touching, for fuck’s sake, had all been fantastic.

But there’d also been a few walks on the grounds, and that N.E.W.T. level charms project they’d been paired on, and study sessions for exams.

She’d kissed his bloody cheek as a good luck charm before the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff.

True, he’d been so addled he only scored twelve goals.

Still.

And cocoa-by-the-fireplace had evolved from a one-off to something of a ritual in those cold winter months. They’d covered everything—stupid things like music and naming weird constellations and would-you-rather games, important things like their families, and awful things like the war, and politics, and how the world was definitely going to shit. He could talk to her about everything. He’d been startled to realize that he’d _wanted_ to talk to her about everything.

From those conversations had borne the something definitely more than friends—a comfortable intimacy he hadn’t built with anyone, aside from his mates.

He trusted her.

He was crazy about her.

He wanted her to know how bloody fantastic she was, all the damn time. It was everything he could do to prevent shouting it at her in the halls.

And then, last party before Easter, they’d gone and ruined it all by snogging for an hour.

Or two.

It had been fantastic, but precarious.

Something.

He hadn’t dared write to her over hols, though he’d wanted to. Desperately. Until he’d worked out over long, fireside conversations with his mum that he was possibly in love with Lily Evans. And he returned to school with that knowledge, and things had shifted again. This time, James was painfully aware of it.

They still flirted, obviously, but he’d kept a maddeningly respectful distance, touch-wise. Things had seemed potentially serious between them. And they didn’t talk about it. They definitely didn’t snog.

They didn’t even touch.

But they did flirt. A lot.

He’d driven himself mad for a week before she wrote, demanding to know if he was going to write her this summer, or fucking what? And that had been that. Still, writing wasn’t the same as in person, and he impulsively flew to her house yesterday.

And it had been brilliant, hadn’t it? They hadn’t touched, obviously, but he’d been Lily-starved for more than a month and he was content just to watch the tele for a few hours.

And here she is today. But she didn’t seem in any hurry to tell him _why_ she was here, or she would’ve done. He cocked his head sideways. “Is this revenge for my coming to _your_ house so early yesterday morning?”

She feigned innocence. “Did you?”

“I had to leave early so no one saw me flying, or I wouldn’t’ve done!”

He would’ve done. He left so early so he couldn’t back out, like the four times before.

“Actually, I’d planned on coming by today long before yesterday. Deciding to stop by your house first, this early though? Most definitely because you woke me up yesterday.”

“You’d planned on stopping by?” James had the sense to cringe at the hopefulness in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Evans?”

“Yeah?”

“I am glad you’re here, yeah? But what in the bloody hell are we doing on my front path, with my parents eavesdropping, so early on this fine morning?”

“It’s the second best day of the year, _puer capitis_ Potter, and I wanted to see you.”

“What in the bloody hell are you on about? And was that Head Boy Potter in _Latin_?”

“Yes,” she said, entirely too self-satisfied. “And it’s 25 July!”

“…and? Touché, by the way. But what’s the significance?”

“C’mon, James. Think! I mentioned this at least once last year.”

“Seriously. Nothing. “

Lily frowned, and then patted her head. “Wait. I forgot something.”

“Oh?”

She instructed him to close his eyes. As a Marauder it was normally his role to convince others to close their eyes, and as such, long experience had told him never to trust that sentence. But of course it was Evans asking, and she rolled the r in your, and she blew a big, pink gum bubble and popped it, and when she swiped the remnants off her tip with her tongue, he had to close his eyes just to keep his heart from bursting.

Fuck, he was a ponce.

He heard the zip of her knapsack, and the sound of her rummaging, and no sooner had decided to peek when she said, “Alright, open.”

He laughed, couldn’t help it.

Lily stood there proudly, grinning like a loon, wearing the silliest hat he’d ever seen. And being a wizard, he’d seen loads of ridiculous hats. It was more or less a triangle of cheap, red Muggle fabric with a white pouf at the end, and every thirty seconds or so, the triangle creaked mechanically and flopped jerkily from one side to the other. 

Perfect.

She reached her hand into her knapsack, which was definitely charmed to hold more than it appeared, for her arm disappeared to the shoulder, and then she produced a misshapen, poorly wrapped present with a lopsided bow on top.

In staring at the present a small jolt of _Deja vu_ hit—he’d seen the same paper under her tree the previous December.

Suddenly it all made sense.

“Oi, Christmas!”

“In July, yes! Keep up, garcon chef Potter.”

“That’s not even how French works, Evans. Did you _really_ learn that phrase in multiple languages just to torment me?”

“It’s summer—what else have I got to do?”  
“Wrap presents, apparently, and harass blokes before breakfast.”

“Merry Christmas in July, James,” she said, turning the gift in her hands without handing it over. “As you may remember, during actual Christmas, I had a slight bout of illness, for which you provided treatment in the form of laughs, cuddles, hot cocoa, and a potion that actually worked. And my steaming ears made my sister _furious,_ which I don’t know that I ever told you about, but for all of that, thank you.”

She thrust the present into his hands.

“Open it, then!”

Never one to delay gratification, he ripped the paper off unceremoniously.

She immediately began to qualify. _“_ It’s not much _._ It’s not even new. But—nostalgia, y’know? Even though it’s not as grand as—”

“Shut up, Evans,” he said, grinning at her. “It’s amazing. I love this mug.”

“Yeah?”

He reached out and squeezed her hand, unspoken rules be damned. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Because it was the same mug they’d sipped from last December, in the shape of what he now knew was a Dalek, since they’d watched multiple episodes of Dr. Who yesterday. And before he could wax nostalgic any more, she was holding out another present to him.

Another qualifier: “Save this one for after I leave, yeah?”

His smile faded, and his stomach dropped. He’d been about to invite her for breakfast, his parents be damned, and— “Are you leaving already?”

“I’ve got things to do, people to see,” she said. Her eyes flickered to the window. “And your parents have been staring at us for the last 5 minutes—”

James swung around to the kitchen window where, sure enough, they were hovering at the kitchen window. “Sunofa—” he motioned at them to move, leave, do _anything_ , but they waved back cheerfully.

Lily attempted to disguise her laugh with a cough and failed. “Just open it after I leave, yeah?”

Maybe her leaving was better than whatever embarrassment his parents would inflict. Still.

“That definitely makes me want to open it now though.”

 “I promise, you definitely don’t.”

“Evans,” James whined, but Evans put her hand on his wrist and his brain stopped working.

“James? Please wait the two minutes it’ll take me to get out of your hair.” Rules be damned, she squeezed his wrist lightly, and his stomach lurched again.

“Alright, fine. But I reserve the right to stop by later if necessa—”

“I won’t be home until after supper,” she said, shaking her knapsack. “More deliveries to make. But after that, sure.”

“Is that by design?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“You do scare me a little, Evans, you know that?”

“Same, James. But that’s what makes it fun, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh—I actually came so early because my owl came. I’m Head Girl.”

He pulled her into a swift hug, pulling her skates clean off the ground. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and this was new, too. Fireworks, winning-at-Quidditch, nausea-inducing-but-the-good-kind type of new. When she pulled back, he lowered her to the ground, though she made no move to disentangle herself further.

Neither did he.

“We’re going to be good, yeah?” she asked. She’d tilted her head back to look him in the eye

She wasn’t talking about their Headships, or even Hogwarts at all. Like always, she was so fucking sure of it, daring the world to prove her wrong. And despite everything—his terror at fucking this up, his terror at getting it right, the Headship, the fact that they had one year left at Hogwarts, the news, the _war_ —

He gave her another small squeeze. “We’re going to be fucking brilliant.”

“Oh—one more present.”

The “yeah?” died on his lips, because her mouth was on his. Briefly, much too fucking briefly, for in his shock he dropped the mug and it shattered on the ground. She broke away. Before he could pull her back, she took a small half-glide backwards, toward the gate.

He looked from her, to the mug, to her again. “ _Fuck_.”

“It’s alright.”

She pulled her wand from her back pocket and repaired the mug.

“Evans. Warn a bloke next time, yeah?”

“No promises.”

“To the next time, or that you’ll give warning?”

“Really, James?”

She levitated both the mug and present he’d dropped into the air, and he grabbed for them. In the half second his attention was diverted, before he could call her name, protest, say _anything,_ she turned on her heel and skated for the front gate.

So _that’s_ why she’d worn them.

“Any time, Evans! And I mean that!”

“Open your present now!”

He ripped the paper apart just as the pop of her Apparition sounded just beyond the garden hedge, and a several pictures fell on the pavers. Wizard, from the look of them. He picked them up and thumbed through them in the privacy of the front stoop.

The pictures were all from last year, all of the two of them—arguing about the superiority of their preferred condiments at the breakfast table, swimming in the Lake on that dare, the snowmen, the stunned look on his face as she’d kissed him good luck, snuggled by the fireplace, dueling in DADA. Hard to say how much time passed, before he noticed the note that had fluttered to the ground.

He picked it up and read it.

“Hero,

Apparently Mary has been sneaking pictures of us all year. Who knew? I hexed her, but then looked at them properly and thanked her. Then I made a copy for you. Thought you’d like these to swoon over, because I certainly have. As much as I teased you today, if everything went according to plan, you’re going to be a brilliant Head Boy. Accept the compliment, Potter!

We’re going to be amazing.

xo

_puella capitis lilium_

P.S. I got a three am owl from Sirius. Thought you could use some cheering up.

P.P.S. Can’t wait to see your new tattoo in person!”

James looked up, half hoping she was at the gate, but she was gone. No matter—he’d definitely show up for dinner tonight. And maybe tomorrow night, too.

Sure, he might possibly have a permanent Head Boy tattoo on his arse. His parents were surely going to unleash an interrogation when he passed through the door. And the world might, indeed, be going to shit.

Still, this year wasn’t going to brilliant. It was going to be _fucking_ brilliant.

He was definitely in love with Lily Evans.

He was pretty sure, even if she didn’t know it yet, that the feeling was something like mutual.


End file.
